


Connecting

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Genital Torture, Homelessness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikey experiences a moment of connection while waiting for the bus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Connecting

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not PC. I do not share the opinions of those in this fictional piece.

Mikey sort of hates taking the bus. There are a handful of good reasons to take it. A lone bus in the diamond lane is quicker than five thousand cars all going in the same direction. A bus pass is way cheaper buying gas every second day, not to mention any repairs he might have to have on the shitty car that he could afford. He doesn’t even have to transfer, the 34 is two blocks away from his work and a ten minute walk from home.

The downside is actually getting to the bus, and waiting for it once he gets there. There are a lot of homeless people on the route he has to take from work to the stop and Mikey is always torn between feeling sorry for them and praying that they won’t acknowledge him. The people that walk up and ask for change or a bus ticket aren’t that bad. He can just say no and they go away. It’s the people that sit on the sidewalk and hold out cups or signs with sad phrasing that really test his avoidance strategies. Put on your headphones, don’t make eye contact, stand with your back towards them.

That changes the day he walks to the 34 stop and there are two guys sitting on the cement. Mikey doesn’t get why it’s always on the cement, there’s a perfectly decent bench that nobody waiting has claimed yet. He plops on it, backpack still on his back. It can’t be stolen if it’s still attached to him. Neither approaches, which is strange. He can’t help himself, he glances over. Both guys are moving their mouths, but it’s pretty much in unison. Mikey doesn’t read lips, but it doesn’t look like a ‘lost my job lost my home’ speech.

He looks away, and without making it too obvious he slides his headphones until they’re curled around his neck. The guys are singing. Not the drunken warbles of someone that’s just downed a bottle of mouthwash. It’s actual, decent, in tune singing. He sticks his hand in his pocket and powers down his ipod so he can listen without the headphones blaring at him from their position at his collarbones.

Mikey really likes music. He knows that everyone likes music, he’s read the studies where infants so premature they don’t even know how to eat will suckle to the tune of music, he’s read about entrainment and great unifiers. Still, he’s convinced he likes it more than most people. He's one of the kind of people who reply with 'everything' when asked what they listen to. Rock more than anything, probably, but country has it’s place, as do top twenty radio hits.

Music is one of the two things that really connect to him. The other is discomfort. It's weird but Mikey likes being in pain or irritated. It wakes him up in ways that happiness just rolls over him and doesn't touch. He wears hoodies all year round so he’s sweaty and sweltering in summer, chattering and freezing in winter, never truly comfortable, and he likes it that way. He stands on the ride home, holding on to the dangling plastic strap and letting himself nearly stumble with each sudden stop, legs aching after a full day of being on his feet, when there are seats available. He’s maybe a bit masochistic.

The combination of the two is why a moshpit is a second home. A better home. It's got music and elbows in the ribcage. When he stumbles out he's hard and it would be impossible to pinpoint a reason why. More often than not, it doesn’t matter anyway, he can find someone to help finish him off. Indie clubs are full of the perpetually unaffected getting what they need to survive two nights a week.

So squeegee kids singing in the middle of the sidewalk. It’s not PC, but it’s entirely true to say it hits both of his kinks hard. He keeps his gaze on them, listening to every word as it pours out their throats. They could just as easily be on stage, performing in front of a hundred interested teenagers. He looks at them long enough that when he looks forward the rest of the crowd is gone. Mikey checks his watch and he’s actually missed his fucking bus, just didn’t notice it rolling to a stop in front of him.

It’s the idea of forty five minutes until the next that spurs him into it, more than anything else. He stands and shuffles over to where they’re standing, looking for a place to drop a few bucks. There’s nothing, not an overturned hat, or a styrofoam coffee cup with dregs still in the bottom. There’s not even the perfectly cliched can to be rattled. He considers the possible stupidity of his actions for a second before asking “You want a coffee or something?”

The taller one grins. “Does this look like a face that would turn down a coffee?” They both get to their feet, and damn, the taller one is a lot fucking taller. The shorter one stomps his feet a few times, undoubtedly trying to get the blood flowing again.

“I think there’s a dude down the street?”

Mikey’s had that coffee. He and Gee used to make a contest of who could have coffee from the most strange and out of the way places before he gave up and became a Starbucks zombie. The Koffee Kart guy’s stuff tastes like shit, and it’s almost cold when it comes out.

“Nah. I know this place,” he gestures and they follow him. It’s like four blocks in ...some direction. He knows how to get there from work anyway, he’s just got to backtrack to work then look.

What he doesn’t realise until he’s being pinned to the wall with a forearm across his throat is that leading two street kids down a back alley shortcut seems a bit suspicious. “Uhhh,” he tries to croak out. Since people’s voices come mostly from their throat it’s not very clear, and since he’s talking directly into the taller one’s chest they probably can’t hear him anyway.

“We’re not whores.” The tall one seems very emphatic on this point. “You can’t buy us, asswipe.”

He lets go and Mikey slouches forward, automatically curling in on himself as he tries to get air back into his lungs. He’s probably going to have marks on his throat, and he can’t breathe, and it’s fucking _hot_ and he knows he’s hard and he also knows it’s probably just about the worst timing ever.

The shorter one notices. “We’re not fucking whores. Your money doesn’t matter, and _this_ doesn’t matter.” Halfway through his sentence he reaches out and grabs Mikey by the balls, squeezing tighter with each syllable. Which backfires completely. Mikey gets what he’s saying, he really does. But it’s the sort of thing that Mikey likes, and it only takes seconds for the burning feeling in his belly to explode into white hot flares that have him coming inside his jeans.

“Dude! What the _fuck_!” He lets go and backs away until he’s standing beside the taller one.

“I can give you,” Mikey doesn’t know how he wants to finish the sentence. Spare change? Coffee? A phone number to a great place that will let them audition for open Mike Wednesdays?

“We’re not taking money for that. Freak.” The short one stomps out of the alley, and with one last look behind him, the taller one follows. Mikey breathes for a minute, then looks at his watch. He’s still got enough time to get a latte before the next bus comes.


End file.
